


Feeling Pretty

by AxiomCommissions (twofoldAxiom)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Crossdressing, Dirk Needs To Learn To Give Affection Better, Eridan Needs Affection, Fingering, For The Cat Seal, M/M, Minor Violence, Nook Eating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 07:43:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3241730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofoldAxiom/pseuds/AxiomCommissions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Eridan,” He starts, putting your pusher aflutter when he does, because he hardly ever says your name. “what’s this about?”</p><p>You sniff again, harder. Your voice comes out damnably wheedling and whiny, but you know Dirk is going to keep asking until you give a straight answer, damn him. Your blood suffuses your face. “I want you to make me feel like you want me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feeling Pretty

Eridan: Reminisce ==>

Your name is Eridan Ampora and you’re a bit too busy to be takin’ a trip down memory lane, thank you very much. You’re currently darting through a kelp forest in hot pursuit of a cat seal, and the fucker is fast and desperate, cutting through the water in a grey-white blur. Ahab’s Crosshairs is sure and heavy in your hands, but you don’t want to risk blowing it to bloody clouds in the water and potentially attracting a school of predators if you can.

The cat seal eludes you once more and you growl, though the sound is lost to the sea. In the green-black-blue of the kelp forest, with the depths swirling below you, the cat seal could be anywhere- along with all manner of hungry horrors that could think a seadweller an easy meal.

(They’d be wrong of course. But if you’re lucky, they’d be the edible sort of horror.)

From the corner of your eye comes another flash of grey, and you whip around with your sodden clothes swirling around you, and fire into the plantlife. This time you smell flesh, feel the death in your fins, and you smirk. You’ve set the Crosshairs to the narrowest, most lethal laser diameter it has, and when you swim closer you see it’s blasted a hole roughly the size of a coin through the cat seal’s skull.

You grab hold of its tail and start hoisting it upwards, towards the dappled sun and the dark shape of the boat.

You toss the cat seal, and yourself, over the side of the boat with a thump that makes Dirk look over his shoulder without even a flinch. He’s hauled up his own catch, but the silvery fish are nothing compared to the bounty you’ve brought him. You grin and park yourself neatly across from him. “You can put away your net now, this ought to last you a week at least.”

He appraises the cat seal, and you, glancing at you over his shades. He licks the salt off his lips. “Probably a week. Gonna have AR look up some recipes for cat seal later.” He turns back around and starts pulling in his net, and another measly fish drops onto the floor of the boat (he’s since stopped using buckets to hold fish).

Not even a thank you. You pout. “Alright. But come on, hurry and get us out of here before the salt crusts in my clothes.” That gets the ghost of a chuckle out of him, but you’re serious; you’re a seadweller, but your clothes aren’t, and you hate how crusty and itchy they can get. Besides, you’ve got a surprise waiting for him in your sylladex that will _definitely_ get his attention if offerings of cat seal don’t.

You bicker amicably through the ride (rather, you whinge and pout at him and he continues to stoically quip one liners at you until you’re not sure if he’s pitch flirting or flush flirting or both), and then sooner or later you arrive at your destination. You carry the seal, he carries the fish, and that makes him flush a little, though he brushes it off as sunburn and you want to bite his lips and see if he calls that salt swelling.

~!~

Your name is Eridan Ampora and this may be one of the best ideas you’ve ever had. You check yourself in the mirror for the umpteenth time while Dirk continues to shower (you beat him to it, and just as well, because he takes forever), and you’ve got plenty of time to make sure you look perfect.

The corset is cinched as tight as you can make it, stopping your gills right up, but you can make that sacrifice because the way it makes your hips flare is glorious. Tulle and taffeta bloom from the bottom in a long, fluffy half-skirt, accentuating your legs which are wrapped in sheer stockings. Your hair hangs around your face in slightly slick curls, which you brush through with gloved fingers.

You fasten the choker around your neck, set the cameo pendant at the hollow of your throat, and spritz yourself lightly with some kind of still-floral concoction that you found in a flooded ruin. It still smells good, smells of flowers long extinct, and it completes the softness of your costume perfectly.

You sit on the bed and wait for Dirk.

~!~

The fucker takes an hour longer than you anticipate, and by the time he opens the door, you scramble to present yourself artfully after having fallen asleep. You’re a little sore and groggy from your impromptu nap, but the effect doesn’t seem to be noticed by him (you hope), because he spends a moment just standing there, in nothing but a towel and shades. You can feel him looking you up and down, devouring you with his eyes, and you shudder a little.

“What’s the occasion?” He asks, which snaps you out of the reverie. You scowl.

You sigh. “Honestly. _Honestly._ ” Your voice rises just a bit at the last word, and you bite your lower lip, brows slightly furrowed. “You have no sense of romance. ‘You look beautiful’ or somethin’, I would appreciate, but _what’s the occasion?_ Honestly, Dirk, that hurts.”

And it does, just a little, a niggling sting in your bloodpusher that is nonetheless there and enough to put the faintest hint of tears to your mascara’d eyes. You tell yourself not to cry, because you’ll ruin your make up, but he can be so fucking cold. You sniffle and huff as dramatically as you can, because if you’re going to ruin your makeup you will damn well make it worth your while.

You feel the bed dip and sway slightly, as he crawls onto it still in nothing but the towel and those damned shades, and then he tilts your face up and you have to work hard to glare at him through the plastic lenses. His eyes are amber-brown through them, tinged slightly red by the auto-responder’s circuitry, searching your face. (You can see yourself in the inky darkness, and the dark beads of tears threatening to fall from your eyelids.)

“Eridan,” He starts, putting your pusher aflutter when he does, because he hardly ever says your name. “what’s this about?”

You sniff again, harder. Your voice comes out damnably wheedling and whiny, but you know Dirk is going to keep asking until you give a straight answer, damn him. Your blood suffuses your face. “I want you to make me feel like you want me.”

You’re suddenly aware of how naked he is, how he’s practically hovering over you; aware of the heat of his skin in the muggy block, still slightly damp, weirdly scarless compared to yours. His breath is on your mouth when he parts his lips, voice low as he wipes a tear from the corner of your eye. “Sure thing.”

He kisses you before you can protest his word choice, calculated and harsh all at once. You bite him and he groans when you lick up the blood. Serves him right, a little sting for a little sting, even if yours is deeper than his. But when he pulls away and you whine, he kisses you again, smudging your lipstick all over your mouth.

You hear a clatter as he takes off his shades and your bloodpusher is in your throat again, because there are few things that Dirk Strider ever takes his shades off for in your presence, they’re even waterproofed. His fingers cup your jaw and he covers your eyes with a soft “shh” that could never be pale, not with him, just an almost-silent command to keep them closed as he pushes you onto your back, slightly squishing your dorsal fin. You sigh his name you think, but you’re not sure. You feel him pluck your glasses off too.

He kisses you with more tongue, sucks your lower lip into his mouth and makes your breath hitch when you run your hand through his hair, but then he pins your wrists to the bed as quick as lightning. His thumbs smooth over your palms before his fingers glide down your pulse. You shiver and murmur his name again, and he shushes you some more.

His hands reach your sides, you bite your lower lip and fight to keep your eyes closed when you feel him trailing kisses down your throat, over the choker, down your collarbones; you feel the pressure of his lips through the corset’s silk and bone, lower, lower, until he reaches the hem and lifts your thighs over his shoulders.

“Dirk!” You chirr, the name distorted on your throat, as you feel the hot swipe of his tongue along the seam of your groin. Your bulge isn’t out yet, it takes a while for seadwellers to get them out, but your sheathe feels swollen and heavy with it, so it won’t be long. He repeats the motion a little closer to your nook, a little closer to the slit, and you muffle another whine.

He rubs his rough, sword-calloused palms over your ass, over the small of your back, and just when you think he’s content to just tease you like this, just when you consider grabbing his hair and mashing his face into your nook slit and grinding down like there’s no tomorrow, he points his tongue and pushes it in. You moan and grip the sheets.

“Please, more,” Your voice is garbled already, built for being used underwater, but he knows what you mean, that’s how good he is when he bothers to pay any attention to you. He gives your ass another generous squeeze and presses his mouth to your lower lips with a gentle suck, starting to draw shapes in you with his tongue. It’s nowhere near as good as a bulge, even his weirdly stiff human bulge, but it’s good all the same, blazing hot against the coolness of your insides. You mewl and arch your back, but he grips you harder, wraps arms like cords of steel around your legs and keeps you spread. Your claws tear little holes in the sheets.

His mouth moves a little lower, and he changes the angle, thrusting his tongue as deep as it can go and pressing into the spot behind your bulge- there, just like that, it unsheathes at last, and the suddenness makes you gasp again. He lets go of one of your legs to start stroking and squeezing your bulge, and you make noises that are frankly embarrassing as you toss your head from side to side.

Your tongue is lolling out, you notice belatedly when your eyes stop rolling back in your head for a moment. He doesn’t stop though; every time you think you’ve gotten used to what he’s doing, he changes it up- here, he presses into your shameglobes with his tongue, there, he pushes a finger into you, scissoring you open and plunging his tongue even _deeper._ You have no idea where he learned to eat nook like this, considering he grew up alone in the middle of an ocean, but _goddamn._

The temptation is too much, you can’t bear it anymore. On the third pass of his mouth, when he’s sucking on the little flap of flesh between nook and bulge, you chance to open your eyes and look down at him- and he’s looking up at you. He’s been watching your reactions the entire time, fuck, and his eyes never leave yours as he slides his tongue back inside of you again, his blunt teeth scraping your skin.

You can see yourself in the sunset-orange of his eyes. The fingers crooked in you start to thrust, knuckles grinding into the sweet spot behind your bulge, making it thrash, and it’s to the tempo of his fingers and the vision of your own face in his irises, tear streaked and flushed, that you come with a choked scream. Violet splatters against his mouth, streaks through his hair from your bulge, and normally you’d be aghast at the waste of genetic material but it feels too good. You arch off the mattress and tear a gouge in it.

Then you’re lying there with your thighs clamped tight to his head and slurry dripping down his chest, staining your skirt. You flush, and now you’re worried because you might have hurt him as you loosen your hold, but he looks fine if a little dazed. He sneezes violet into his hand when you let go. You blush even harder.

He’s hard, too. That makes your fins light up, stretched tight like a pair of fans, when you notice his cock jutting between his legs. He takes off the towel and unselfconsciously starts wiping you down with it, and you just stare at his cock through the whole thing, sort of impudent and awkward.

Then he wipes off his face and puts his shades back on, and the spell is broken. You’re still dazed from your orgasm, so you let him put a fresh towel on the ruined sheets, gather you and your ruined dress in his arms, and lie back on the pillow, just listening to the waves. The sun slants through the windows, turning the walls and furniture varying shades of soft gold.

“Feel better?” He says after a time.

You sniff again, wipe your face, and very lightly, knock him on the chin with your horn. “You made me ruin my makeup.” You whine. He pets your hair and kisses your forehead, and you’re not sure how long it takes, but you fall asleep listening to his breath and the waves.

~!~

Eridan: Wake ==>

You wake up again when the moon is high to the smell of something… not sweet, sort of salty, savoury perhaps. It’s been a long enough time that you haven’t smelled anything but salt and sweat and rust and blood that it wakes you up right away, though you take a minute to just luxuriate in the slight soreness of your hips and the feeling of silk on your skin before you open your eyes, scrubbing your eyes.

Dirk is sitting at the edge of the bed, dressed in shorts now, with a plate of something that’s making that amazing smell. It’s some kind of dark, fatty meat, drizzled with oily sauce. Your mouth waters. He puts a lock of hair behind one of your earfins. “Rise and shine, sleeping beauty. I made dinner. It’s the cat seal you nabbed.” He says.

You breathe again, get a sniffer full of the meaty scent, and gulp before looking up at him. You tilt your head. “Did you just call me sleeping beauty?”

“I did.” He confirms, and when you open your mouth stuffs a chunk of tender meat past your teeth. You chew before you swallow. It’s a little bland, but everything considered, it’s the best thing you’ve eaten in weeks.

“Care to join me?” He asks, and you look to the makeshift table of driftwood planks and cinderblocks he’s dragged to the center of the block, the emptied cans he’s filled with fat and string to use as candles, the salvaged computer chairs making up your seats. The plates are at least real plates. It should look grubby and disgraceful, but he called you beauty, didn’t he, so to you it’s perfect.

You pick yourself up and take his hand. You’re thankful he wiped down your legs with the damp towel earlier, because your genetic material is tacky on the skirt and you would hate to have to move with that on your skin. The two of you eat by makeshift candlelight, and listen to the sound of the sea outside.

**Author's Note:**

> Commission for clockworkeclipse/dualitat on tumblr, hope you enjoyed!


End file.
